


Tipsy in a Red Push Up Bra

by TacitWhisky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Jon Snow knows nothing except where to put it, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Sansa Stark in a push up bra what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-08-22 03:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TacitWhisky/pseuds/TacitWhisky
Summary: Of course the first time Sansa Stark sees Jon Snow in God knows how long, the first time since they lost the house and she’d come to live with her aunt Lysa, it would have to be at a house party where she’s already tipsy on schnapps. And of course it would have to be the one time she’s wearing the ridiculous red push up bra Margaery talked her into buying.TLDR: Tipsy Sansa in a red push up bra. What could go wrong?





	1. Margaery's Party 1

Of course the first time Sansa Stark sees Jon Snow in God knows how long, the first time since the funeral, since they lost the house and she’d come to live with her aunt Lysa and her freak of a son, it would have to be at a house party where she’s already tipsy on peach schnapps. And of course it would have to be the one time she’s wearing the ridiculous red push up bra Margaery talked her into buying.

She’d needed air, air and a break from guys staring at her jiggling shelf of cleavage (and yeah, but still), and that was why Sansa had found herself slipping out the side door of Margaery’s house into the chill night air. She’d gone to shut the door behind her, and that’s when she’d caught sight of Jon: a slim figure in jeans and a button-up leaning against the fence opposite the garage, hands stuffed in his pockets. It’s a sight from a different life, a sight so familiar it almost hurts, and it freezes Sansa midway through closing the door. “Jon?”

Jon glances up at her and frowns. His eyes dip from her face to her cleavage, then snap guiltily back up. “Sansa?”

Sansa crosses her arms in front of her, but in her muddled state she’s not sure if that make her cleavage situation better or worse. And because she’s had enough of Margaery’s peach schnapps for her head to be tingly and numb, she says the first thing that pops into it: “what are you doing here?”

“I needed air.” He shrugs, eyes carefully not straying from her face. “It’s too loud in there.”

“No, I meant-” Sansa starts, but it’s hard to know what she meant with the schnapps still humming through her veins and music shivering through her skull. How many years has it been since she’s seen Jon? Two at least since the funeral, maybe another two before that. It’s hard to remember. Growing up she’d always been a little embarrassed of him, Robb’s weird charity case friend he insisted on bringing everywhere. _But that was before. Before Joffrey, before the car, before the house_. Sansa shivers and finishes closing the door, the blare from inside instantly muffled. “Aren’t you in college?”

“Yeah. My roommate Theon dragged me out.” Jon nudges his chin towards the house. “He wanted a wingman, insists hitting on seniors isn’t a felony here.”

“Oh.” Sansa bites her lip. “I thought you were out of state.”

“No, I go to Castle Black Community College. It’s a few minutes from here.”

 _Community College_. Why had she thought that was such a bad pair of words growing up? Like going to one was something to be embarrassed about, the kind of place you only went to if you were going to fix drains or cut lawns and had no future, a secret you only whispered if you really had to. _Did you hear? Poor thing went to community college_. Sansa had never had to worry about that being her growing up, never had to worry about how to afford whichever ivy league school she wanted. Now she’ll be lucky to get through college without drowning in student loans.

“Sansa?” She looks up to see Jon peering at her like he’s said it a couple times. “You ok?”

She rests her head back against the wall and gives him a half lidded, nose up smile. “I’m a little tipsy. Don’t tell.”

The corners of Jon’s lips lift and he smiles back, maybe the first time she’s ever seen him do it when he isn’t around Arya. “Don’t worry about it. Arya’s the only person I have to tell.”

Sansa curls her nose. “She’s always texting me random animal sex facts.”

“Yeah, she does that.” Jon's smile quirks. It’s a nice smile, something quiet and unassuming in it, like it’s just for her. He’d never smiled much when they were young, but then he’s also grown up since then: lankiness filled out and shoulders broadened, and under his button-up Sansa can make out the kind of long muscle that in her current fuzzy state of mind makes her want to lean forward and see what it feels like under her fingertips.

Jon scratches his cheek and shifts against the fence. “Why are you out here in the cold?”

“My friend Margaery dragged me.” It’s true, but it’s not all of the story, not the part she doesn’t want to think about now, not ever, the part she’s come here to escape. “And I’m all danced out.”

“Really? You never used to get tired of dancing.”

 _And how would you know_ , a part of Sansa hisses. But that isn't fair. She’d been the one embarrassed of him, the one that wished Robb would stop bringing him everywhere. They’d been inseparable, the two of them. Even with her mind pleasantly fuzzy Sansa can picture them side by side with their backs to the couch playing some shooting or sports game on the TV. Jon would curse and Robb would laugh, that deep laugh he had that-

 _Robb_. Sansa lets her eyes flutter shut, lets the throb of music through the wall shiver through her arms and legs and bones. She wishes she could sink back into the wall, melt into the shiver of music and not have to think, not have to _be_. That was why she’d come after all, why she always lets Margaery talk her into coming out on a week night despite how much she needs to do well at school if she wants a shot at college next year.

A breeze sifts through the alley, pimpling the skin of Sansa’s bare arms. Though Jon’s eyes have stayed carefully fixed on her face since she first came out, with her eyes closed Sansa feels suddenly vulnerable, shark bait hung out to dry in front of Jon, all too aware how skimpy the tank top she’s wearing is with the push up bra beneath it thrusting her chest up and out. _I don’t normally wear this_ , she almost tell Jon, but bites her lip hard enough to bruise to stop herself. The Sansa he knew wouldn’t dress like this, but she hasn’t been that girl for a long time. Without opening her eyes she leans her head to the side and combs her fingers through the waterfall of her hair. “Do you like it?” She asks Jon.

It’s a long moment before Jon answers. When he does his voice is careful. “Your hair?”

“Yeah. The color.” How long ago had she dyed it black? Before the funeral or after? Sansa can’t remember. She blinks her eyes open, slips a stray lock of hair behind one ear, and smiles at Jon the smile guys like: the one she gives the guys Margaery pushes her way once she’s had her pick, the one that tells them that the night will go the way they hope, that it’ll go the way they want, that she’ll be who they want. “You like it?”

But instead of smiling back Jon just frowns. “You look... different without the red.”

And suddenly it’s too much: all of it, the cold and schnapps and shiver of music clenching painfully tight in Sansa’s chest. She doesn’t want to be here at this party with its press of bodies and cloying beer stench, and she definitely doesn’t want to be here with Jon-mournful-fucking-Snow: Jon who has no right to be showing up and reminding her of a life she no longer has, Jon the charity case who’s looking at her with his quiet eyes as if she’s the one that’s damaged goods, Jon who’d been there in the car that ripped a gaping hole in her chest that she can never fill no matter how much schnapps she pours in or how many parties she goes to or guys she lets touch her.

From inside comes a shout, and the music cuts off. The side door bangs open and kids start spilling out. One of them, dark haired Mya Stone, stops long enough to grin at Sansa. “Cops! They’re checking IDs.”

She vanishes with the other kids, leaving Sansa frowning after her. She knows she should bolt, that the last thing she needs is to have to call Lysa from jail, but it all feels very far away. _What does it really matter?_

Someone grabs her by the arm, and she turns to see Jon beside her. “Come on,” he says and tugs at her arm, “this way.”


	2. Margaery's Party 2

Jon takes off in the opposite direction from the other kids, back along the house and a gate that opens up into a neighbor’s side yard, Sansa stumbling after him. They slip through the dark into a back street and then Sansa loses track of where they are or where they’re going, all the streets blending together into a dark maze. A few minutes of the wind whipping her hair and Jon pulls her to stop a next to a darkened park. “This should be good,” he says, barely breathing hard. “Who was your ride?”

There’s a playground just inside the park, and Sansa slumps to a seat on one of the empty swings, curls her fingers around the frigid and dusty chains. “Margaery. But that was her house.”

Jon stuffs his hands in his pockets against the cold. His breath mists the air. “Arya said you’re staying with your aunt. What about her?”

“I told her I was spending the night at Margaery’s.” The cold has peeled away some of the peach schnapps’ tingling warmth, and Sansa finds herself missing it desperately. Calling Lysa for a ride isn’t an option even in the best of circumstances much less late at night to be picked up from an abandoned park, but she doesn’t want to admit that to Jon, doesn’t want to do anything to look more pathetic than she already has. _I can text one of my friend_ s, she thinks of offering, but that would be a lie. She’d had people she thought were friends in her old life, but they’d all shriveled up and disappeared after she could no longer keep up with their lifestyle, and she knows better than to think the people she goes to school with here are her friends.

She looks up and realizes Jon is watching her in the quiet, careful way he had outside Margaery’s house, like she’s a bird with a broken wing. Sansa tears her gaze away, a cold knot clenched in her gut. After Joffrey she’d sworn she would never do this again, never let anyone see her like this. “You don’t have to take care of me,” she blurts. “I can get one of my friends to give me a ride.”

“Don’t worry about it. Robb would’ve killed me if-” A muscle twitches in Jon’s jaw and he shakes his head. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “It’s not a problem. Theon was my ride, I’ll get him to come pick us up.”

Sansa nods, but a lump’s risen to her throat at Robb’s name, and it refuses to bob back down as Jon takes the swing next to her, hands thrust into his pockets. Cold minute after cold minute ticks by without Jon’s phone chirping until Sansa doesn’t think she can stand it any longer. She wraps her arms around herself, shoves her hands into her armpits. “Have you talked to Bran?” She asks without looking at him.

Jon is silent a long moment. “Not for awhile,” he finally answers. “I wanted to see him more, you know after, but-” a rustling sound like he's shaking his head. “Catelyn isn't the biggest fan of mine.”

Sansa remembers that about the funeral at least: the way Arya had clung to Jon with his sling the whole time and the way her mother had watched him coldly, silently judging, silently asking why he’d been the one to survive. She’d never liked Jon. Maybe that was why Sansa had never liked him either. She’d wanted so desperately to be like her mother when she was young; Catelyn who was effortlessly graceful always. Idly, Sansa wonders when that stopped, when she turned into the girl who goes to parties and gets tipsy on schnapps so she won’t feel nauseous when guys grind up against her on the dance floor, who ends up in an abandoned park at midnight with a stranger.

 _Not a stranger. Jon_.

Jon slips his phone out to check it, mutters a particularly imaginative combination of four letter words, and stands up. “My place is about a mile from here,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “We can wait there, if you want. I think Theon found a girl so it may be a bit.”

Sansa nods mutely, too cold to do more, and stands. They leave the park behind, streetlights flooding the sidewalk in pools of yellow halogen light. Though not the highest heels she owns, Sansa’s feet ache almost immediately.

“Hold up,” she tells Jon after a few minutes. She reaches up and grabs his shoulder, and maybe it’s the last hurrah of schnapps left in her veins, but she can’t help but notice how muscled it is, the way his tendons shift under her fingers as he reaches a hand to steady her. And she can’t help but notice the way his eyes slide to her chest as she does and the way the platter of her cleavage jiggles as she balances on one foot and then the other to slip off her heels.

“All good?” Jon asks with a faint smile, eyes flicking guiltily back to her face.

“All good,” she agrees with a smile of own, heels dangling from her fingers.

 

* * *

 

It take maybe another ten minutes of walking to reach Jon’s apartment. Jon fumbles with his keys when they reach the stairwell, then pulls open the door and holds it open for her. It’s too dark to see anything inside until Jon hit a few switches on the wall and light flickers on to show a small but relatively neat apartment, a third of the space taken up by a kitchenette and island.

Sansa uncrosses her arms and rubs her hands together as Jon moves to the thermostat on the opposite wall. She starts wandering around as he fiddles with it. “Sorry,” Jon mutters. A second later a gust of hot air rattles the vent overhead. “It’ll heat up soon.”

Sansa nods absentmindedly, only half listening, still taking in the small space. Outside of the kitchenette there’s a vaguely second hand couch, a nicked and dented coffee table, a flatscreen on the far wall, and Theon's Iron Island band posters plastered across the walls. It’s a guy’s setup: clean enough to invite girls over to, but no real thought in any of the details. But that wasn’t fair: was her room at Lysa’s really any different? Even after a year it still feels empty and strange, not truly hers. Her room is back in the old house, lying on her stomach scribbling in her diary on her bed or standing on the tips of his toes in front of her mirror to do her makeup before school.

“I know it’s not a lot,” Jon rubs the back of his neck as he watches her wander around the room, “but it’s close to Castle Black. Saves me having to drive a lot.”

“I’m not judging.” Sansa forces a laugh. “My Berkeley plan died about the same time as my college fund dried up.”

Jon is silent as she finishes wandering around the room. “What happened with that?” He asks as she circles back to where she started. “I heard some of it from Arya, but you know how she is with... details.”

Sansa bites her lip. She glances at the door beside where Jon leans against the wall, because if she looks at him something in her will crack and break and, though she doesn’t know why, of everyone in the world in this moment she doesn’t want Jon to see that. “Is that your room?”

He nods silently, and she crosses the room, pushes the door open and slips inside still without looking at him. The space inside is maybe a quarter the size of the pink and pastel blue one she’d had back in Winterfell, his bed taking up a majority of the floor. There’s a half open closet next to it, and on the wall are thumbtacked a few of the weird drawings Arya instagrams sometimes.

Something about them makes Sansa tired and her chest ache, and she folds her legs under her and sinks to the floor at the foot of Jon’s bed, cool wood knuckling into her back. Jon goes to flip the light on, then pauses. Out of the side of her eye she sees him let his arm drop, and he moves to the foot of the bed. She feels more than sees him slide down to the carpet beside her, legs drawn up to fit in the narrow space between bed and wall.

“Give me your hand,” she says, still not looking at him. He hesitates, then offers it, and Sansa draws it to her lap. It’s warm and solid, calluses rasping lightly against the tips of her fingers as she ghosts them over his palm. “What did Arya tell you?”

“That your dad had been floating money for his business partner. Baratheon, I think.”

“Robert Baratheon.” She traces the half circle running from his wrist to above his thumb. It’s easier than looking up. “After the crash…”

And sitting with his shoulder touching hers and his hand in her lap, Sansa tells him. Tells him how when her mother had needed the money back Robert hadn’t had it, how after the feds shut him down it meant they were never getting any of it back, how it had taken selling the house and cashing in her father’s life insurance and every cent they had invested just to cover the clients Robert cheated, how even that had barely been enough to keep them from being sued.

And once she’s started Sansa finds she can’t stop: she tells him about how even though he’d survived the crash Bran’s medical bills had drained their savings dry, how her mother had gone back to work only to find she didn’t make enough to cover them, how Arya had almost been expelled from school for getting in fights, how every friend Sansa thought she’d had disappeared like smoke once she couldn’t keep up with their clothes and shoes and purses, how she’d stayed for so long with Joffrey before breaking up because she didn’t know who she was without him, how she’d had to move in with Lysa just so she could have a shot at the Vale High transfer scholarship and a decent college.

Jon listens through it all without speaking, a solid presence beside her, hand callused and warm. When the words have finally run dry he touches her knee. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice soft and hoarse. “I didn’t know. I should’ve been there. But after the crash, with your mom and Bran- I didn’t feel like it was my place-”

“I know. It’s ok.” Sansa gives him a smile; sad and small, but it’s the last she has. “You were there for Arya. I don’t think she could have gotten through it without you.”

“Yeah, but...” Jon’s jaw works silently. “Someone should have been there for you.”

“I managed.” Sansa looks back down at his palm. It is isn’t fair for her to do it, not when they were never close, not when he’s just being kind (and Jon has always been kind, even if she never bothered to notice), but Sansa pulls his arm over her shoulders and shifts so she fits in the crook of his side. “I always manage.”

“Sansa…” He starts, and Sansa thinks his voice may be the saddest thing she’s ever heard. She shakes her head into his shoulder before he can say more. She’s snug and safe, snug and safe for the first time in a long time and she doesn’t want to give that up for something that is dead and gone. They aren’t friends, she knows that, she does, but-

“Jon,” she says softly, “can we just sit for a little?”

Jon is still a long moment, then nods into her hair and pulls her closer.


	3. Margaery's Party 3

Sansa wakes before Jon, while the sky outside is still tinted orange in the dawn light, and for a long time doesn’t move. She and Jon have shifted in their sleep: his arm is still looped over her shoulder, but she’s turned into him, face pressed to his slowly rising and falling chest. He smells like soap and laundry detergent and a musky male scent that makes her nose tingle. She knows she should get up before he does, avoid the embarrassment of him waking to find her curled against him like some clingy girl after sex, but she doesn’t want to pop the quiet bubble of Jon’s even breathing and the dawn light peeking through the window.

She does eventually get up though, slips out from under Jon’s arm and extricates her phone from the pocket of her skinny jeans. She thumbs it on to find the cracked screen blank. Nothing. No calls from Lysa, no texts from Margaery, not even one of Arya’s random memes. _Good_ , Sansa tells herself, but something aches in her throat as she shoves it back in her pocket.

Sansa finds the bathroom and splashes water on her face. The shock of cold wakes her a little, makes her realize how grimy she feels, and she starts the job of scrubbing her face clean of the makeup caking it from the night before. The girl that looks back at her from the mirror after she’s finished is thin featured and pale, water dripping from her nose and jaw and dark hair framing her face in clinging strands. Beautiful her mother called her when she was young; gorgeous is what Margaery says when they try on clothes together; hot is was what she gets from guys; but to Sansa her face is only sickly and narrow and as she towels it dry she can’t help but wish she could just keep scrubbing, scrub and scrub until there isn’t anything left but a hard porcelain shell.

When she slips back into Jon’s room he’s still sleeping. Now with her face washed Sansa is acutely aware of the fact she slept in her clothes and the sweat dried to them from the night before between dancing and running. She drifts over to Jon’s closet. Inside hang a row of t-shirts and button-ups and a pair of jackets in the back. She bites her lip and glances at Jon. Would he care? Borrowing a guy’s shirt was one of those after sex girl moves: but it’s not like they’re dating, not like he’d ever want anything to do with the girly girl he'd never liked. Sansa worms her lip back and forth between her teeth but eventually slips a flannel button-up from its hangar and peels away her tank top.

There’s a half cracked mirror hanging off the back of the closet, and Sansa looks at her reflection in it a long minute: torso skinny and pale against the scarlet of her push up bra. She isn’t exactly flat normally, but the bra shoves what she has up and together. _Every girl needs a good push up bra in her armory_ , Margaery had told her in a carelessly authoritative tone when she picked it out. It’s more sexy than pretty, sleek red silk sans lace, and what had felt daring and adult the night before now just feels trashy. But it’ll only be worse without it, be more like she’s the dumb high schooler that needed saving, and so instead Sansa slips the flannel over it. For a moment she luxuriates in the softness of it, the way Jon’s laundry detergent smell clings to it. It reaches mid thigh, low enough that she’s safe shimmying out of her jeans and folding them on the bed alongside her tank top.

The kitchenette fridge is partitioned in what is very clearly Jon’s semi-neat side and Theon’s post apocalyptic one. Sansa pulls out a couple eggs from Jon’s side, rolls the sleeves of the flannel to her elbows, and busies herself flicking on the burners and pulling out a pan. It takes only a few minutes for the smell of frying eggs to fill the apartment, and then another few for Jon to come yawning out of his room.

“Good morning,” Sansa chirps, though the cheeriness feels forced even to her. It’s too late to turn back now though, so she flashes him a smile and turns and fishes out a pair of plates from the cabinet to avoid facing him.

Jon rubs a hand over his face and takes a seat at the kitchen island. “You didn’t have to,” he says with a yawn, and Sansa’s stupidly grateful he doesn’t mention she’s wearing his shirt even though his eyes graze over it and the way the top buttons strain around her chest. “There’s cereal in there.”

“Fair is fair.” Sansa scoops one of the eggs from the pan, slides it onto one of the plates, and sets it down in front of him. “You saved the maiden, now you get the reward.”

A ghost of a grin appears on Jon’s lips. “What, no kingdom?”

She sticks her tongue out at him and switches off the burner. “Next time.”

Jon chuckles as he grabs a fork and starts on his egg. “Good to know,” he mumbles as he takes a bite. “How do you not have a hangover?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” She raises her nose and sniffs. “A lady never drinks.”

“Of course not.” Jon quirks an eyebrow. “I should’ve remembered you Starks can hold your liquor.”

 _How would you…_ Sansa almost shoots back, but then she remember, remembers and the ache is back in her throat. And just as suddenly she feels like an idiot standing here half dressed in Jon’s kitchen like it isn’t weird, like it doesn't look like she isn’t reading too much into him just being decent, like she isn't the drunk mess of a high schooler playing at being adult, like if she wears his shirt they’ll both believe she’s sexy instead of pathetic. She turns back to the pan so Jon won’t notice, pretends to busy herself with sliding the remaining egg onto her plate.

It doesn’t work. “Sansa?” Jon asks into the sudden silence, and it’s the softness of his voice that makes the ache in Sansa’s throat blossom so she has to blink away sudden tears. “I didn’t mean...”

“It’s ok.” She tries for a laugh, but it bubbles out bitter and pathetic. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t need some girl being emotional all over your kitchen. I know you have better stuff to be doing, that you’re just watching out for me because I’m Robb’s little sister. It’s ok. I know I’m not Arya and I know I’m not-”

She doesn’t really see Jon stand as she babbles, just feels the sudden warmth of his arms as he wraps them around her and pulls her tight to his chest, and then Sansa can’t keep back her tears. She sobs, though she doesn’t know why, even though it’s so fucking stupid, sobs and sobs into Jon’s shirt as he holds her through it.

Eventually the tears stop, and Jon gently pushes her to arms length. “Sansa,” he says stooping his head to peer into her eyes. “I have nothing better to be doing. _Nothing_ , ok? You're not just Robb's little sister to me. Don't ever think that. You may not be Arya, but you’re Sansa Stark: the bossy girl I’ve known half my life who's never let anything stop her getting what she wants.”

“I’m not though.” Sansa hiccups a laugh. She’s never felt more tired, but if she doesn’t force the words out now she doesn’t think she ever will. “I don’t know what I’m doing Jon. Ever since the crash no matter what I do or where I am I can’t stop- it _hurts_. It hurts so much, and I can’t stop it.”

Jon rubs her arms, hands gentle over the flannel, and Sansa wishes she could close her eyes and fall into the feeling and never have to open them again. “I can still feel it sometimes,” he says softly. “The car swerving and the truck, and stumbling out afterwards. And it feels like- it’s like being hit by lightning but no one can see it. I go to school and work but everyone just acts like everything’s the same, like nothing’s different, like there isn’t this giant crack in the world that’s going to swallow us up. I don’t know why it was him in the front seat. I don’t know why it wasn’t me. It should’ve been. It would’ve been easier.”

“Don’t say that.” Sansa shakes her head sharply. “Just don’t, ok?”

Jon’s jaw clenches and he blinks rapidly, and Sansa realizes just how much of what she thought was his normal expression must be a mask, how young and lonely and tired he looks without it. She wishes there’s something she can say or do to make it better, to take away the hurt, but she knows there isn’t (God, does she know that). She reaches up and squeezes his hand, and maybe that’s enough because he closes his eyes and nods.

They stand like that a moment, silent and lost in his kitchen, the smell of eggs filling the air and her hand squeezing his. Finally, Jon takes a deep breath and lets it whistle out from between his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking at the floor.

“About what?” Sansa scrunches her nose and reaches out to rub the wet spot on his shirt where she’d pressed her face. “I’m the one that got snot on your shirt.”

Jon grins weakly and leans back against the counter, hands slipping from her arms, and she immediately finds herself missing them. “That’s two shirts you owe me, you know.”

She’s never felt more drained, but Sansa finds herself smiling back. It feels good to smile, something warm kindling in her chest. She laughs and wipes her nose with the heel of her hand. “Sorry. You can have this one back if you want.”

A smile tugs at Jon’s lips. “Right now?”

Sansa bats her still wet lashes at Jon. She arches her back and smoothes the flannel of his shirt against the planes of her ribs and curve of her hips so her chest strains the buttons. “Why not…?”

She hadn’t been serious (had she?), but Sansa catches the flicker of Jon’s reaction all the same: the way his tongue plays between his teeth, the way when his eyes slide away from the newly smoothed lines of the flannel they flick up to her lips, her eyes, then her lips again in a way that’s almost hungry.

And it’s that flicker that lingers in Sansa’s mind as they finish breakfast side by side on the counter, as Jon scrubs the dishes and she dries them, as Jon hangs back as she fits into her skinny jeans (but she keeps the flannel and Jon doesn’t complain), as Theon finally arrives and Jon drives her back to Lysa’s, as he has her hand him her phone and saves his number in it, as he walks her to the door and gives her a tight hug, as he whispers in her ear for her to be safe.

And as Sansa watches Jon walk back to the car she thinks maybe Margaery isn’t so wrong about the bra after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always follow me on tumblr at tacitwhisky.tumblr.com for sneak peaks of upcoming stories and chapters.


	4. Christmas 1

It’s Christmas Eve when Sansa wears the push up bra again.

It isn’t something she plans. She’d been careful picking her outfit for a day with the family, more careful than she had been for that night at Margaery’s: skinny jeans again, but in place of the tank top she goes with a sleeveless top she found on sale, a red cardigan over it, and a plaid scarf looped around her neck. It’s closer to how she used to dress back in the old house, before the crash, before she came to live with Lysa. And it’s why when Sansa looks in the mirror she pauses for a long moment until Lysa shouts something from outside her door, then quickly strips off the top and fits the push up bra under it, replaces the scarf with a thin black choker.

She regrets getting rid of the scarf as soon as she steps outside, but she’s timed it so she’s only left to stand shivering at the foot of Lysa’s driveway for a few minutes before Jon’s battered Chevy pulls up. He frowns at the chatter of her teeth as she opens the passenger side door and slips inside. “I could’ve parked.” He says.

Sansa shrugs and cups her hands around the warmth gusting from the air vents on the passenger side, relishes the tingle through her fingers. Jon has only a vague idea of the horror that is Lysa, and Sansa’s stomach squirms with embarrassment at the thought of him meeting her. She changes the subject with a rosy cheeked grin. “How much did the tires cost you?”

“Too much.” Jon shakes his head and shifts gears. “They’ll get us there ok though.”

Sansa settles deeper into the seat as Jon pulls out of Lysa’s neighborhood, nervous energy thrumming through her. It’s the first time she’s seen Jon since that night weeks ago at Margaery’s party, and she is all too aware of the shape of him in the corner of her vision, the easy way he leans forward and flicks on the wipers as droplets begin to spatter the windshield. _You’re going to embarrass yourself_ , a part of Sansa hisses, and she glances away out the window and to the grey sky whipping by overhead.

The cold had come on early in the week, a chill creeping in from the east coast, and she hadn’t looked forward to riding the train. She tells herself that the feeling that shivered through her when she first saw Jon’s text a few days before offering to give her a ride up to her family was relief and refuses to question it more than that, because she wasn’t that girl anymore, had sworn she never would be again.

 _Arya always invites me_ , he’d texted, _but I never feel like it’s my place. She says Bran’s inviting a couple of his friends though…_ It’s not the first time they’ve texted. All day after Jon had dropped her off after Margaery's party Sansa had told herself she wasn’t going to text him, a ball knotting in her gut each time she glanced at her phone’s screen and remembered how she’d embarrassed herself. But the day had worn on, and by ten Sansa couldn’t keep her fingers away from her phone any longer. _Thank you_ , she’d tapped out, instantly regretting it as a little green check mark popped into existence beside the words.

It’d felt like hours but was probably about thirty seconds before her phone chirped. _Don’t mention it_ , he’d texted back, and Sansa had heaved an internal sigh of relief. That was it. They stumbled into each other, she’d embarrassed herself, and now it was done. He would go back to being a stranger from another life, and she could just be the weird clingy girl he’d had to help that one time. And if the feeling that was welling in her chest was something other than relief then she’d swallow that down like she had so much else. She’d tossed her phone facedown on her pillow and tried to focus on the homework spread over her duvet that needed to be done by morning if she didn’t want a B in algebra.

But then her phone chirped, and Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat as she flipped it over. _Theon won’t shut up about the girl he hooked up with,_ it read. She’d worried at her lip with her teeth, a hundred different replies flitting through her mind as she stared down at the phone screen, then eventually typed: _guess we’re lucky he didn’t come back with her last night_. It wasn’t funny, wasn’t witty, and she’d hated it as soon as she tapped send, but Jon responded a minute later and it was easier after that.

She’s texted with guys since Joffrey but this was different, giddy and exciting in a way it wasn’t with them. _Don’t be pathetic,_ she’d tried to tell herself. Jon would never look at a dumb high schooler like her, and she’d sworn to never be that girl again, the one that threw herself at guys, let them do whatever they wanted to her like she had with Joffrey: but it’s hard not to, hard not to look over each new text a few times to make the most of the giddy thump in her stomach before responding. She’s never been more acutely grateful that the person she’s texting can’t see her face, because if Jon could see hers she’d shrivel and die. They’d spent the night going back and forth until Sansa had fallen asleep with the rectangle of her phone screen shining on the pillow next to her.

“You sure you’re good to ride the train on the way back tomorrow?” Jon asks, startling Sansa in her seat. “It being Christmas.”

Last year a guy who was twice her age had sat next to Sansa the whole ride, close enough for her to smell his rancid breath, eyes sliding over her in a way that made her skin crawl. But Jon doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll be fine.” She pats the overnight bag she’d slung under her seat when she slipped into the car. “I’ve got earphones.”

“You may need them sooner than that.” Jon frowns at the old radio set in the dashboard and leans forward to fiddle with it. Sansa bats his hand away, tries to ignore the tingle through her fingers as they bump his. _Don’t be pathetic_. “You can stay the night, you know,” she tells him, voice carefully careless as she takes over. “I’ll talk to my mom about it.”

Jon gives her a sidelong look. “Your mom hates me. Really, it’s ok. I know Christmas morning is a thing. I’ll drive back tonight, and I already picked up an extra shift at work for tomorrow.”

Sansa bites her lip as she manages to tease out a trickle of pop music from the worn dial of the radio. _Christmas morning is a thing_. It had been in the Stark household ever since Sansa was old enough to totter down the stairs as a child. Once she was older she’d always taken special pride in getting up before her siblings and helping her mother heat up steaming mugs of hot chocolate as Robb and Arya and eventually Bran and Rickon came yawning down the stairs. Her father had always been last, and his face would wrinkle in a smile when he saw her. He’d draw her into a one armed hug and kiss the crown of her head as he took his mug.  _Thanks, sweetheart,_ he’d say in his warm, gravelly voice. _You’re already all grown up, aren’t you?_

And even though that girl is long gone, for a moment Sansa can again smell hot chocolate, feel the rough warmth of her father’s arm drawing her snug, and it’s like a knife is carving white-hot through her chest, splitting her breastbone in two, and she can’t shrink from it, can’t run, can’t-

“What about your mom?” Sansa blurts, voice tight in a way she prays Jon won’t notice. “Won’t you miss her if you’re working?”

“I talked her into going skiing with some girlfriends of hers.” Jon shrugs. “I want her to have something of her own. She gave up a lot raising me.”

“It was just the two of you, right?”

“Yeah.” A smile tugs at Jon’s lips. “We used to get that we were brother and sister all the time. It used to irritate me so much, though I can’t remember why now.”

There’s something steady and warm in Jon’s voice, and Sansa latches onto it as she leans back in her seat. “Maybe you wanted them to know. Didn’t want to plaster over what happened with your dad.”

Jon tilts his head to the side and gives her a strange look. “When did you get so wise?”

A pang swells in Sansa’s chest fat as a red balloon ready to pop. She hadn’t been horrible to Jon as a child: that would’ve taken acknowledging his existence in the first place, and the most she’d ever done was feel embarrassed about the weird kid Robb brought with him everywhere. It makes her want to shrivel how shallow she’d been, how self involved, how little she’d known just how hard life could truly be. Would it really have cost her so much to be friendly to Jon? To smile at him now and then without turning up her nose?

They talk for the rest of the drive, an easy back and forth with the radio crackling out pop tunes in the background. Sometimes Sansa dials the sound up when it’s a song she likes (to which Jon will dutifully groan in protest), but for the most part it’s just him and her and the murmur of rain and tires outside. It’s nice, nicer than Sansa wants to admit, the longest she’s talked to anyone in months and leaves her strangely warm and prickly at once, like a cat with its fur ruffled.

* * *

 It’s drizzling as Jon pulls into the driveway of her mother’s house. It’s smaller than the old house, with a tall oak in the front and an unevenly trimmed lawn. “Arya’s handiwork,” Jon says pointing it out, “she’s constantly whining about it.”

They’ve both barely stepped out of the car before the front door of the house flies open and a dark haired blur is streaking down the steps and launching itself at Jon. Jon laughs and rocks back as Arya throws her arms around him. He steadies himself and wraps her tiny frame in a tight hug. “Careful or you’re going to crack my ribs.”

“You’re such a butthead.” The fierceness of Arya’s voice is muffled by her face pressed into Jon’s chest, and she pulls away with a bashful grin and punches his shoulder. “You never come.”

Jon grins back and something childish twinges in Sansa’s chest at the expression, the fond way he’s looking down at Arya like he’d die for her on a pin drop. _They’ve always been like this. You just always thought you were better than them._ Sansa reaches back into the car and slings her bag over one shoulder. “Mom inside?”

“Hey Sansa,” Arya says without looking at her, still grinning up at Jon. “Yeah, she’s doing cooking stuff.”

Sansa purses her lips, but tries to ignore the prick of irritation. She closes the car and starts up the path to the front door, Jon and Arya falling in behind her, Arya already beginning to chatter about her soccer team.

Sansa mounts the steps and pushes open the door, and suddenly it’s like there’s a knife lodged in her chest again. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does, a sudden and violent ache. This isn’t the old house, isn’t her home, the one where her father would smile and hug her hello, where Robb would call her little sister: but that only makes it worse, like this is some version of the world where neither of ever existed to begin with.

From around the corner Bran wheels into view, tall and lanky in his chair. “Hey, Sansa. How was the ride?”

“Good.” Sansa leans down and hugs him, tries to push down the clawing ache threatening to drag her down. She tries to think of something to add, but it’s been such a long time since they spoke that she doesn’t know what to say. “Mom says you’re inviting friends this year?”

“Yeah, Meera and Jojen.” Bran gives Jon a pleading look as he steps though the door. “Can you talk Arya and Rickon into not teasing Meera too much that she’s the first girl I’ve invited over?”

Jon grins and shakes his head. “I would if I could, but I’ve been a guest enough times to know teasing is a Stark family tradition.”

“Jon!” Shrieks a new voice, and Rickon slams into Jon’s legs. Jon laughs and musses Rickon’s hair as he falls back onto the couch. A smile plays at Sansa’s lips as she drops her bag behind the table. She should be jealous she supposes, but it’s a relief in a way not to be the center of attention like she was last year. It had been a long pair of days filled with awkward silences with her mother and passive aggressive spats with Arya. Sansa crosses to the door where Catelyn has emerged from the kitchen, a thin layer of flour dusting the same auburn hair Sansa had before she dyed it.

“Hey sweetheart,” her mother says absentmindedly. Her lips thin as she catches sight of Jon wrestling with Rickon, a line forming between her brows, and Sansa can feel something bitter already beginning to well under her mother’s tongue. She’d never liked Jon: not when Robb first brought him tagging along one day, not when he’d hang out after school, not after the crash. “Arya said you’ve already started on dinner,” Sansa breaks in before whatever’s on her mother’s tongue can find words.

Catelyn glances towards her and frowns faintly as her eyes tick over her clothes. The bra isn’t as ridiculous under her current top as it had been under the tank top at Margaery’s party, but Sansa still stares at her mother, silently daring her to comment on it. Catelyn’s lips purse as if she’s going to say something, but seems to think better of it at the last second. “You don’t need a minute to settle in?”

Sansa shakes her head and slips past her into the kitchen, away from where Arya has piled on top of Jon and Rickon. “What are you working on?”

She doesn’t see Jon for the next hour as she works beside her mother slicing pecans and mashing potatoes for dinner. As a child Sansa had loved nothing more than working with her mother, but that was before, and this is now: twice she asks about Sansa’s hair, and twice Sansa has to shrug as though she can’t remember why she dyed it. She tells her about school, about the teachers of hers she can remember the names of, about her progress on the Vale High transfer scholarship, but the list of safe topics is a little shorter each time they see each other and after only an hour silence has begun to seep into the hollows of their conversation.

They put the chicken in to roast, and as her mother changes clothes Sansa pours herself a cup of cider and sits on the couch with her legs folded under her. The drizzle from earlier has turned into a full blown storm, rain beating the roof like a drum. It gives the house a cozy feel like the kind she’d loved growing up, rainy afternoons that were a chance to curl up with a book warm and safe against the gale outside.

She’s sipping the cider and checking her phone when Jon emerges from Arya’s room and flops onto the couch opposite her. “What?” He asks after a minute as she watches him with a faint quirk of her lips over the rim of her glass. Sansa shrugs, the shoulder of her cardigan slipping down as she does. “You look different.”

“You too.” Jon’s eyes fall to the bare curve of her shoulder. His eyes flick up to her face guiltily. “You look… happier.”

Sansa slips the cardigan back up and gives him a shy, defiant smile. “What’s not to be happy about?”

The corner of Jon’s own lips quirk in answer, and Sansa wonders why she never noticed when she was young just how handsome he is. He’s not what she wanted when she was growing up: not some pretty boy with dreamy hair like Joffrey, but now that she’s older she finds it impossible not to notice the scruff shadowing his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the faint pearl line of a scar above his eye from the crash she hadn’t noticed at Margaery’s. It’s not breathtaking like in bad romance novels, but Sansa’s chest is tight and she can’t but be utterly and helplessly aware of how little space there really is between them, how easy it would be just to lean forward despite how she swore after Joffrey she’d never be that girl again, the girl that let a guy do whatever he wanted with her, the girl that-

“Why are you two sitting together?” Arya breaks in loudly. At some point she’s come into the room and is now standing in front of the couch looking back and forth between the two of them with a frown. “Why are _you two_ talking?”

“Hush,” Sansa snaps glancing away from Jon, instantly irritated in the way that only Arya can make her. _Don’t be pathetic_. “We can talk. We’re adults.”

“No you’re not. Jon is an adult. You’re still in high school.”

Sansa flushes. The cider left in her cup nearly sloshes over as she sets it down too fast and stands abruptly. “I need to check on the chicken,” she says, and refuses to meet Jon’s questioning look as she leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long hiatus we're back. Much like the first three chapters these next set of chapter are all mostly written and will be posted every few days or once a week just depending. As always you can follow me on tumblr at tacitwhisky.tumblr.com
> 
> What's everybody think? Your comments give me life energy.


	5. Christmas 2

It takes another hour before dinner is ready to be served. Catelyn watches with thin lips while Jon and Arya joke and tease each other as they set the table, but before she can say anything Bran’s friends have arrived dripping wet from the storm outside, and by the time they’re dried and in fresh clothes it’s time to put out the food.

The table is humming with conversation as Sansa seats herself: Bran and his friend Jojen are telling Catelyn about a school project, Rickon and Arya are arguing about something loudly, and Jon is listening to Bran’s other friend Meera talk about a different school project. The chair on the opposite of him is open, and as Sansa slips into it he flashes her a grin she finds hard not to return.

The rain drumming the roof gives the meal a warm, cozy feel that Sansa hadn’t realized how much she missed. Arya and Meera compare the soccer teams at their school, Bran makes faces at Rickon until he’s giggling helplessly, and even Jon and her mother make polite small talk. Sansa slips in and out of the conversation, mind wandering. It’s dumb, but she can’t help but be distracted by every smile that flits across Jon’s face when he says something to Arya or Bran, the way his lips quirk when he catches her looking at him and she has to glance away quickly and ask her mother how work is going.

When the food is finished everyone moves to the family room. Jon and Meera shove the couches into the corners, Sansa helps her mother heat up a round of hot chocolate, and Bran pulls out a board game from the closet. It’s cramped with all of them, but Sansa doesn’t mind: with the Reeds and Arya on the couches it gives her a good excuse to squeeze in next to Jon who’s sitting cross legged on the ground. Arya casts her a suspicious look, but Sansa studiously avoids her gaze and gives Jon a perfectly innocent smile. Jon for his part just smiles back faintly, not seeming at all bothered by the shape of her next to him.

The board game ends up being some kind of spin on monopoly that quickly devolves into Arya and Bran owning ninety percent of the board between them while the rest of them are stuck paying rent out of dwindling stacks of cash. Sansa doesn’t mind. The last time she and Jon were this close was the night of Margaery’s party, and she finds herself again noticing the clean laundry detergent smell of him, the way the musk beneath it makes her nose tingle, how warm his shoulder is against hers when she leans forward to roll the dice.

The game begins to wrap up, and Sansa finds herself fiddling with her piece before each move until Arya finally yells at her to hurry up already. _You’re being pathetic_ , a part of her whispers, but when the game is done Jon will leave and every moment she stalls is another with him beside her.

Finally the game does end though. For the last hour her mother has worn a frown each time she glances at her phone, and an alert beeps from it as they pack the board back in its box. “There’s a flood warning,” she says, voice strangely tight, “the highway’s closed.”

“Actually closed?” Jon pulls out his own phone and Meera shifts so she’s leaning over his shoulder. “What about South 58?” She asks him.

“Closed.” Jon frowns at his phone and chews at his lip. “You guys could take-”

“No.” Catelyn says sharply. Her face has drained of color, leaving it bone pale. “You can drive home in the morning if the storm’s cleared up. But you’re not driving in this rain.”

There’s a long pause, house silent, before Meera blinks and frowns at Jojen. “I mean, we’re Jewish, so I don’t think dad will care.”

Jon glances at Sansa, face still and strangely vulnerable. “I don’t want to get in the way-” he begins slowly.

“You’re not.” Sansa flashes him a smile she doesn’t feel, tries to ignore the pit that yawned open in her stomach at her mother’s words. She rises and begins gathering up the empty mugs. “We’ve got the room. Meera, you can stay with Arya, Jojen can take Rickon’s bed, Rickon can sleep with mom-”

“I’m not a baby!”

“-and me and Jon can take the couches.”

“There’s enough room in Arya’s room for you, Sansa.” Catelyn rises and takes the mugs from Sansa. “I’ll get the sleeping bag-”

“Mom, I can-”

“-you and Meera can both fit,” Catelyn says firmly, and Sansa catches the way her eyes snap to Jon. Anger sparks in Sansa’s chest, but she forces it down before she can snap that she’s not a child just as childishly as Rickon had. _Jon’s an adult. You’re still in highschool_.

They watch a movie to fill the last hour of the day. Because she’s in the kitchen Sansa doesn’t get a chance to choose her seat this time, and Arya’s already monopolized Jon’s personal space on one of the couches by the time she gets back. It irritates Sansa more than it should, but she simply takes a seat on one of the chairs in the back and glances at the wine bottle her mother left out. She wishes she could pour herself a glass, mute the jittery nails on a chalkboard itch building in her ever since her mother said the highway was closed. It’s what she’d do at Lysa’s though there she never uses a glass, just sips whatever she’s smuggled in from Margaery's last party.

The movie drags on and Sansa loses track of the plot as the itch worsens. It isn’t as bad as at Lysa’s during long evenings that never seemed to end, isn’t as bad as when she’s at one of Margaery’s parties and the music is blaring; but still it’s an itch she can’t scratch. All that stops her from sneaking herself a glass is the scene she knows it will cause if her mother sees her, and Sansa doesn’t trust herself not to snap something at her that she’ll immediately regret.

The movie does finally end, and there’s another scramble of activity as everyone gets ready for bed. Sansa manages to slip into Arya’s room to change, and only as she pulls out her pajamas from her bag does she realize that the top she brought is Jon’s flannel shirt, the one she wore home after Margaery’s. It’s embarrassing, but in just the month since then it’s become her favorite thing to sleep in, the fabric soft and fuzzy and still faintly smelling of his detergent. Sansa bites her lip, but her only other options are either to sleep in the top she’s in now, the one she’s going to wear tomorrow, or borrow a shirt from Arya that will almost definitely not fit.

Sansa tries to convince herself as she slips off her shirt and replaces it with the flannel that no one but Jon will recognize it, but the thought does nothing to help the anxiety that coils in her stomach as she opens the door for Meera and Arya to pile in.

“Why are you wearing a guy’s shirt?” Arya asks as soon as she’s through the door. She flops onto her bed, already in a ratty t-shirt and loose pajama pants. “It’s not Joffrey’s, is it? Please tell me you didn’t hang onto anything of his.”

“Of course it isn’t his. Do you really think he’d ever wear flannel?” Sansa snaps, and immediately regrets it as Arya frowns at the shirt, then glances up at her face thoughtfully. Sansa’s cheeks burn. She crosses to the wall and switches off the lights. “Don’t hog the blanket,” she mutters slipping in next to Arya.

* * *

Sansa waits a half hour, until Arya has stopped tossing and turning, before slipping out of bed and padding out into the hallway. Jon is still awake on the couch, room dark but for the flickering of his phone screen. “Hey,” he says quietly, peering over his phone at her. “Snack?”

Even with the heater on the house is still chilly, and Sansa shivers as she grabs a blanket and curls onto the couch opposite Jon. They’re only a few feet apart, couches closer than usual after having been shoved together to make space for everyone, close enough that she doesn’t have to raise her voice. “Arya snores,” she informs him as she props a pillow under her head.

Jon snorts a soft laugh. “I forgot about that.” A bitter note creeps into his voice. “You’re not worried like your mom that I’m going to make a move on you while you’re asleep?”

It’s a joke. Sansa knows that, but a shiver tingles down her spine anyway, goosebumps her skin. She’s thought about that moment in his kitchen weeks before when his eyes had flicked to her lips more than she’d ever admit, replays it as she drifts off to sleep at night. And she wonders what would’ve happened if he'd stepped forward: would his hands have gone to her hips? Slid behind her back to arch her into him? Lifted her onto the counter? And what would she have done: pressed herself against him? Looped her arms around his neck? Let out the whimper building in her chest as he growled low and rough against the dimple of her throat, sound shivering through his teeth?

The more time that passes the longer Sansa has to think of it, fit her imagination to what make her feel most stretched and aching. Guys have sexted her since Joffrey of course, but none of them have made her feel the way that just that simple look from Jon had, none of them sparked the same kind of deep ache in her. _You’re being pathetic_ , she’s hissed to herself half a hundred times, but she can’t stop herself thinking about it as she drifts off to sleep or at other more private and embarrassing times when her sheets are suffocating and won’t stop sticking to her skin.

Sansa burrows deeper under the blanket, glad of the dark so Jon can’t see the way her face has flushed red. “You’d never do that,” she says softly. “You’d ask.”

Jon flicks off his phone. He gives her a smile she can barely make out in the dark. “I like your shirt.”

She tangles her fingers in the long sleeves of his flannel and pulls it tight around her, gives him a sleepy, defiant smile. “It’s comfy.”

They lapse into silence, the rain outside a quiet patter against the roof. Sansa’s gaze drifts to the wine bottle on the table, but it’s too much work to get up and pour a glass, and she doesn’t want to leave the warmth of the blanket. Her eyes dip closed. “Are you glad you came?” She asks, because she doesn’t want to sleep, not yet, just wants to hear Jon’s voice a little longer.

“Yeah. I thought… I thought it would be harder. You know, to see everybody again.” The couch rustles as he turns to her. “What about you?”

Sansa shrugs beneath the blanket. “I missed them,” she says, and finds her throat dry and aching. “I didn’t realize how much I missed them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just posted a sneak peak of the next chapter on [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com) so follow me there if you're interested. And as always, let me know what you thought in the comments.


	6. Christmas 3

Sansa wakes before the rest of the house, though she’s not sure why. The room is still dark, and she’s snug and warm curled beneath the blanket, rain pattering against the roof. Across from her Jon lies on his back, eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling. They’d talked late into the night, words drifting in the dark, but Sansa remembers little of it, mostly just remembers the soft lilt and rasp of Jon’s voice as she drifted off to sleep.

As warm as she is under the blanket, and as tempted as she is to simply burrow deeper under it, Sansa has always been an early riser, and eventually she gets up and folds the blanket, places it back where she found it the night before. It’ll be simpler for everyone if it seems like she slept in Arya’s room and just got up early.

It’s a good plan; one that’s immediately foiled as Sansa slips into the kitchen to find Arya still in her ratty t-shirt and pajama pants munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “What were you and Jon talking about last night?” She asks without preamble as Sansa crosses to the pantry.

Sansa shrugs as she grabs a tin of coffee and busies herself with filling the coffee pot with water. “How do you know we were talking about anything?”

Arya doesn’t answer, and when Sansa’s done putting the pot on and setting the coffee machine she glances over to find Arya giving her a half lidded look. “Jon’s really good,” she says flatly, “and you never even liked him.”

Sansa leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “So?” She answers, voice pricklier than she’d meant it. It’s always easy to forget how difficult living with Arya is until she has to do it again no matter how short term. “What do you care if I talk with Jon?”

As though summoned by his name Jon walks into the kitchen. “Hey,” he says with a yawn, and circles around the counter to muss Arya’s hair. “Why are you two up so early on Christmas?”

“Breakfast.” Sansa flashes him a smile, and pulls a bowl from under the counter. “Hold this.”

Jon makes for a good assistant as Sansa whisks up a bowl of french toast, flicks on one of the burners, and starts dipping and frying slices as one yawning kid after another stumbles into the kitchen. After everyone’s been fed Sansa slides the last of the toast unto a pair of plates and offers one to Jon. He smiles and leans a hip against the counter and begins to cut the toast with the side of his fork.

Sansa hops unto the counter next to him. “It’s probably fine to drive,” she says as he passes her the syrup, though her chest gives a twinge as she says it. “I know you got work, and I can just grab the train.”

“Highway’s still closed.” Arya finishes swallowing down what must be her fifth slice of toast. “Saw it this morning.”

“It’s fine. I got Val to cover my shift. She says I’ll have to repay her in sexual favors, but I’m like ninety percent sure she’s kidding.”

Arya frowns. “Is Val the cool one or the one that hit on you that one time?”

Jon laughs. “Both?”

 _Jon’s an adult. You’re still in highschool_. At that moment Catelyn steps into the kitchen dressed in a black blazer. “I’ve got to go the office, there’s a problem with one of the accounts.” She leans her head to the side to fit an earing. “Sansa honey, can you run to the store and grab a couple things I forgot? Edmure and Brynden will be here by one or so, but I should be back before then to help you get everything together.”

“I can take you,” Jon offers, glancing at Sansa. He sets his plate in the sink with the other dishes. “We’ll use my car.”

Catelyn’s lips purse, but she nods. “Thank you.”

“I call shotgun.” Arya pushes back her chair without bothering to pick up her plate, but Catelyn shakes her head. “I need you here to make sure the Reeds get off ok.”

Arya scowls like she wants to say something else, but Meera and Jojen are still eating and even she’s not rude enough to say anything with them in the room. Sansa hops off the counter and sets her own plate in the sink. She almost bumps into Jon’s chest, and uses the opportunity to smile at him. “I’ll get dressed and we can go.”

Arya follows her with a suspicious look as she slips out of the kitchen, but Sansa ignores her. She can prove to Jon she’s an adult. She can.

* * *

It’s sprinkling by the time they reach the grocery store, a Kneeling Man Inn stuffed between a pet and dollar store. They park, manage to make it inside without getting too wet, and Jon grabs a cart. It’s been a long time since Sansa’s been in a grocery store longer than the time it takes to scoop up an armful of ramen and she and Jon are forced to drift through the aisles as they try to track down the stuff on her mother’s list. They find most of it, but the last item on the list is fresh cranberries and try as Sansa might she can’t seem to find them.

“You’re some serious wife material,” Jon drawls, leaning forward over the cart as they start down the fifth aisle in a row. “How has no one snapped you up?”

“Oh shut up.” Sansa narrows her eyes and sticks out her tongue as she rolls up the sleeves of his flannel. “I’m so wife material right now. You have no idea.”

“Sansa,” purrs a voice that is not Jon's, and a cold fist clenches in Sansa’s chest. She whirls to find Cersei, Joffrey’s golden haired mother, giving her a sweet smile. “Strange to meet you here.”

“Mrs. Lannister,” Sansa replies automatically, words stilted. Even just going to the store Cersei is flawless in red coat and heels, crimson lipstick somehow perfect, and Sansa has never felt more skinny and badly dressed as Cersei’s eyes tick up from her black flats to her scuffed jeans and finally settle on the loose fit of Jon’s faded flannel. Cersei tilts her head to the side. “How is your mother, dear? I wish I could’ve done more after you father passed. I heard she switched houses again last year, and Joff told me you had to move out?”

“For school.” Sansa wraps her arms around herself. So desperately she’d wanted to be like Cersei when she was younger: to throw the same kinds of fancy parties where people would sip wine and talk art and politics, but even back then Cersei had let Sansa know she’d never be good enough for her golden son in a hundred different ways, half lidded glances and backhanded compliments that told Sansa just how small and worthless she really was. It makes her want to shrink into herself, to shrivel and die, that Cersei is seeing her like this in some shabby podunk grocery store. “It’s just for school.”

“Of course.” Cersei smiles, the expression not reaching her eyes. “I’m sorry we haven’t kept in touch since you and Joff… He felt so bad about how upset you were by that.”

Sansa opens her mouth, but no sound comes from it. _Say something_ , a part of her hisses. _Anything. Don’t let her see you like this._ But there is a weight on Sansa’s chest that makes drawing a full breathe hard, a vice that’s crushing her between it’s arms, and she’s just as small and dumb as she was back then, the pathetic doe eyed creature that had followed Joffrey around and flinched when kicked.

Jon noses the cart forward. “Hey,” he says extending a hand towards Cersei. “I’m Jon. Cersei, right?”

“Yes.” Cersei’s lip twitches at Jon’s extended hand, but it would be rude not to take it, and so she she slips her own slim one in his. “I’m Joff’s mother.”

“Was that one of the kids Sansa use to babysit?”

Cersei scowls, the expression sudden as a storm. “She and my son dated.”

“Oh yeah. I remember that.” Jon frowns at Sansa, for all the world like he really is curious. “Didn’t you dump that guy?”

Sansa draws a breath through the clench of her chest and forces herself to nod. She had. She’d been the one to break up with him, to leave him, and nothing Cersei says can take that from her. “Yeah, I did. Awhile ago.”

Cersei smiles, the expression again not reaching her eyes. She steps past Jon and lays a hand on Sansa’s forearm that makes her whole arm shiver. “We’ll have to not let it go so long again, dear.”

Sansa manages a stiff smile as Cersei slips around the other side of the aisle. She stays gazing at the empty aisle for a long moment until Jon touches her arm. She turns to find him looking at her, eyes apprehensive. “Are you ok?” He starts. “I didn’t mean to-”

Sansa doesn’t give him a chance to finish. A single step and she’s burying her face into his chest, not caring that they’re in the middle of the grocery store, not caring that Cersei is not yet twenty feet away. Jon goes rigid, then almost immediately softens and raises his arms, wraps them around her and squeezes her tight, presses his mouth to the crown of her head.

They stay like that a long time, Jon’s arms folded around her, the thumb of his right hand slowly stroking her upper arm, the hum of freezers three aisles over and the PA system crackling overhead the only sound. Finally, Sansa steps back. She answers his questioning look with a shy smile, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and tilts her head to the checkout line. “We have enough from the list.”

It’s pouring as they leave the store, the drizzle from earlier replaced by a downpour. They’re soaked in seconds as they sprint for the car, but Sansa doesn’t care, something in her giddy even as the cold hits like a slap to the face. She tosses the plastic bags in the trunk and jumps into the front seat as on the opposite side of the Chevy Jon does the same. “Jesus,” he says from between chattering teeth, but he’s grinning as he fumbles to turn the key in the ignition. “I thought the rain was supposed to be done.”

Sansa flicks on the heater as Jon pulls out from the parking lot, teeth chattering and fingers prickling. The air that rattles from it is lukewarm at best, and Sansa wraps her arms around herself, skin twitching and shivering. The rain doesn’t let up as they drive, but the air gusting from the heater quickly warms the car and Sansa closes her eye, luxuriating in its oven warmth thawing her hands and fingers as Jon drives. The giddy feeling from earlier fades as the heat leaches into what feels like every one of Sansa muscles, leaves in its wake a bone-deep languidness.

In what feels like far too little time Jon is pulling into her family’s driveway, though it’s almost impossible to see through the condensation on the windows and the rain still pouring down outside. He switches off the wipers and lights, but doesn’t pull the keys from the ignition. He turns and looks at her, eyes dark and unreadable. “You sure you’re ok?” He asks eventually.

Sansa doesn’t answer. _Say something_. While not panicked like in the grocery store, Sansa finds it just as hard to think as as she stares back at him, at the hair slicked to his forehead, the part of his lips, the way a fine layer of sweat sheens his skin. He reaches over, fingertips brushing her cheek as he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Sansa? I’m here.”

And he is, is in a way that Sansa doesn’t understand, a way that makes something well deep inside her that she doesn’t know what to do with. It’s too hot, the car suffocating, and Sansa has the overwhelming urge to strip off the flannel, to lean forwards and open his mouth with hers, to press her soaked body to his to try and let out the heat that’s threatening to burn through her. If she tries he’ll stop her, Sansa knows. Gently, because Jon is always gentle, but he will, and it will break something in her, snap in two a part of herself that she swore she’d never let anyone touch after Joffrey, a part of herself she’d buried so deep no one could ever find it as she watched Robb and her father lowered into the ground.

All of it flits across Sansa’s mind in an instant. But an instant is also all it takes for her to lean across the front seat and press her mouth to Jon’s.

He doesn’t go stiff like in the store. No sooner are her lips touching his than his hand is cupping her cheek and he’s leaning forward, drawing her to him and deepening the kiss with a fierceness Sansa didn’t know he had in him. It’s good, better than Sansa thought it could be, a tingle shivering up her spine and down her arms and legs. Jon makes a noise, low and husky, and until that moment Sansa never knew how desperate a sound could make her to hear it again. Blindly, she reaches down and fumbles for the zipper of his jeans.

Against her lips she feels Jon frown and pull back. “Sansa-”

“It’s ok, Jon.” Sansa squirms, unable to let out the heat under her skin. She trails a line of kisses down his throat to his collarbone, nips at his bare skin before falling further down his chest. “Let me do this for you.”

Jon cups both of her cheeks, pulls her back up so he can peer in her eyes, pupils pools of black. “You don’t have to.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Sansa shakes her and sweeps back her hair with her free hand, mind fuzzy. She pushes past his hands, sucks at the side of his neck and presses as much of herself as she can against him as if by doing it it’ll push what she she’s trying to say into him. Her fingers scrabble, unable to find the tab of his zipper despite how desperate she is to pull out what she knows is within, to wrap her fingers around the hard warmth of him. “I don’t mind, Jon. I promise I don’t.”

“Sansa-”

“Just let me try.” It comes out a whine, but Sansa can’t stop herself, the shame she’s shoved down for so long spilling out. She needs Jon: needs him to understand, needs to feel him beneath her hand, needs to let out whatever frantic thing is rising in her chest. She gives up on the zipper, plunges her hand beneath the waist of his jeans. He’s just as hard as she thought he’d be, and she wraps her fingers around the length of him, skin sliding smooth beneath her fingers as she tugs at it, gloriously warm. “Please, Jon. I know I won’t be as good as Val or some college girl, but I can still make it feel good. I can. You can shove my head down and blow your load in my mouth if that’s what you want. I hated when Joffrey did it, but I won’t mind if it’s you. I won’t. Just let me do this. Let me make you feel good.”

She tugs on Jon. Once, twice, but before she can a third time he’s reaching down and catching her wrist. “Sansa, stop.”

The word hits Sansa like a slap, leave her ears ringing. She pulls back to her seat, jerks her hand free, all the warmth inside her snuffed out in an instant. _What did you expect,_ sneers the voice inside her, _what did you think would happen? That he wouldn’t see the broken and pathetic thing Joffrey left you? That he would actually want you?_ Jon is looking at her, like he can see right into her, and if Sansa stays in the car for even a second longer the panic bubbling in her chest will consume her. She whirls and wrenches the door open, throws herself into the downpour outside.

The cold is like a punch to the gut. Jon calls something from inside the car, but Sansa can’t hear him. She runs for the door, rain pelting her shoulders, and pounds on it with her open palm until Arya opens it.

“Jeez, Sansa,” Arya starts, but Sansa pushes past her before she can say anything else, not caring how much water she’s tracking in. A moment later she hears the slap of feet as Jon sprints through the rain, shopping bags in hand. He skids to a stop just inside as he catches sight of Arya.

Arya’s head swivels back and forth between them, brow furrowed. “What happened to you two?”

“Nothing.” Sansa wraps her arms around herself, wet flannel clinging to her skin, refuses to meet Jon’s gaze as he tries to catch her eye. She can’t: not here, not now, not ever. “Nothing happened.”

Arya’s frown deepens, but she seems to shrug it away. “You both need to change. Mom’ll freak when she gets back if she sees you tracked water in.”

Jon sets the groceries by the front door. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes.” She hears him tell Arya.

“Yeah, and the dryer’s broken.” Arya shakes her head. “There’s some of Robb’s old stuff in the garage I think. It should fit.”

Jon goes still. “I don’t know if your mom-”

“Jesus Christ.” Sansa’s finger fumble at the buttons of the flannel as she strips it off, not caring that she’s in the middle of the living room and Jon and Arya are both looking at her like she’s gone crazy, Arya’s eyebrows so high they’ve nearly disappeared into her hairline. She looks down and realizes she’s still wearing the push up bra: scarlet against the pale of her torso, chest shoved up and together like she’s some kind of cheap barbie doll. A laugh bubbles in her throat but she chokes it down, wads the flannel into a ball and shoves it at Jon as she shoulders past him on her way to Arya’s room. “Wear whatever the fuck you want, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with last time, I've just posted a preview for next chapter on [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com) so go check that out and give me a follow if you want.
> 
> This was a tough chapter to write, and I'm curious what you all thought. Love it? Hate it? Don't be a stranger, let me know in the comments.


	7. Christmas 4

As soon as she’s shut the door to Arya’s room Sansa strips off the rest of her wet clothes and tosses them onto the floor even as shivers run up and down her arms and legs and her teeth can’t seem to stop chattering. Sansa clenches them hard enough to ache as she grabs dry clothes from her bag and pulls them on without bothering to look at them.

 _You begged_. _Actually begged._ Bile rises in Sansa’s throat, shame and disgust threatening to gag her. She wants a drink in that moment more than she’s ever wanted anything in her life, the harsh warmth down her throat and the fuzzy and tingling distance it will bring, but getting to the kitchen means passing back through the living room and seeing Jon again.

Sansa pushes back the wet hair sticking to her forehead. She can’t think about that. With luck Jon will still be in the garage and she can make it to the kitchen without seeing him. She opens the door before she has a chance to lose her nerve, forces herself to step out into the hallway.

The living room is empty and she hurries through to the kitchen. The bottle of wine her mother opened the night before is still on the counter next to the spice rack. It won’t be as good as the peach schnapps she usually gets from Margaery, but relief blooms all the same through Sansa’s chest. Her hands tremble as she pulls a glass from the dishrack, but before she can reach for the bottle the jangle of keys comes from the door.

 _No, no, no_. Sansa stares desperately at the bottle, but there isn’t time, and it might as well be miles away for all the good it can do her. She forces herself to put the glass back in the dishrack as the door swings open and her mother steps through. “Sansa, honey,” she says with a smile, and leans back out the door to stow away her umbrella so it doesn’t drip over the floor. “I’m sorry I’m late. Did you get everything ok?” Her eyebrows meet in a slightly puzzled expression. “You look nice.”

Sansa blinks and glances down. The clothes she’d packed yesterday are closer to what she used to wear back in the old house before her skinny jeans and tank tops: a red loose knit sweater and A-line skirt with black leggings beneath, as if by wearing them she can pretend she’s the girl she used to be, the one who knew nothing about how hard the world could be, the good little girl who had been so pathetically in love with her perfect little boyfriend she took it meekly when he spat in her face. _Jon will know_ , a voice in her sneers. _He’ll see right through it. He knows what you are now. You made sure of that._

The garage door creaks open, and Arya steps in. “Hey mom,” she says, and her next words cause Sansa’s stomach to drop. “Can Jon stay for lunch?”

Catelyn purses her lips. “I’m sure he needs to get back home, honey. And it’s a… family meal.”

“So?” Arya’s face turns stormy. “What do you want to do, throw him out on Christmas? The highway’s closed again.”

The way Catelyn’s lip thin show that’s exactly what she’d like to do, but before she can say anything the garage door opens again and Jon steps inside dressed in khakis and a thin blue cardigan. He looks nothing like Robb: not really, slim and dark where Robb was broad and autumn, but Sansa’s heart still skips a beat at how _Robb_ the clothes are, how effortlessly she can picture him in them, the grin that'd light his face when he’d hug her hello.

Jon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fiddling with his rolled up sleeves, eyes on her. Sansa rips her gaze away to where her mother is staring at Jon, face white as though she’s looking at a ghost. Her lips twist, but before she can speak Arya moves between them. “Jon and Sansa’s clothes were soaked,” she says, staring up at their mother evenly. “And Bran’s stuff won’t fit him.”

A muscle clenches in Catelyn’s jaw. Wordlessly, she turns and crosses to the kitchen, followed a moment later by the crackle of grocery bags being rifled through. Jon takes a step from the garage. “Sansa…”

But she can’t, not with him, not ever, not after what she’s done, and definitely not with him dressed as a brother she can never have again. Just as wordlessly as Catelyn Sansa turns and flees into the kitchen.

* * *

They cook for the next hour, the itch in Sansa’s throat growing worse, nerves grating each time she forgets a step or has to brush past her mother. Her mother is silent for her part but for a clipped _yes_ or _no_ that Sansa barely hears. Her heart won’t stop hitting her ribcage, blood chugging in her ears.

They’re nearly done when a knock comes from the door and Catelyn goes to answer it. Sansa glances at the door, bites her lip, and is across the kitchen in a single stride. She doesn’t bother with a glass this time; just grabs the wine bottle, unscrews it, and takes a long sip, the tart sweetness tingling on her tongue.

“Sansa,” says a voice, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. Sansa whips around to find it’s Jon, because of course it fucking is. He eyes the bottle and Sansa glares at him, daring him to say something about it, anything. But all he does is meet her gaze, eyes careful. “Can we talk?”

“About what?” Her voice is tight. Her mother will notice of she drinks too much of the wine, but Sansa can’t help the long swallow she follows the words with. “There’s nothing to talk about. Everything’s fine.”

“It isn’t, Sansa. I shouldn’t have-”

“Shouldn’t have what?” A laugh bubbles out of Sansa. She can’t be here. She can’t. But there isn’t anywhere else to go, nowhere else she can run, so she plunges ahead before Jon can say anything else, turns her voice callous. “I’m sorry you had to listen to me beg to throat your dick, Jon, really I am. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. I just felt bad for you. I’ve always felt bad for you, the way you had to follow around Robb because you didn’t have a life of your own. Is it easier now he’s gone? Now that you can just slip into his?”

“Don’t do that.” Jon’s face has gone still but for a muscle clenched in the dimple of his jaw. “That’s not fair.”

 _Fair_. The word makes Sansa want to laugh, to cry and shout and even with the wine finally beginning to trickle a fuzzy warmth into her veins she knows that if she looks at Jon another second something in her will crack. And so as desperately as she wants to drain the bottle Sansa sets it on the counter and shoves past Jon.

Edmure and Brynden are in the doorway shedding their coats. Edmure grins as he catches sight of her, but the expression dies on his face as Jon follows her out of the kitchen a moment later. Beside him Brynden stiffens.

“You both remember Jon.” Catelyn’s voice is clipped, tart as the wine in the bottle. “He was Robb’s friend.”

“Of course,” Brynden says, but his face is cold and closed as he offers his hand. “It’s good to see you, Jon.”

Jon’s body is a live wire of tension as he shakes Brynden’s hand, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal ready to explode in any direction. Edmure shakes his head as if to clear it and tries to grin at Sansa. “Have you grown since the last time I saw you? You look taller.”

Sansa force herself to curve her lips in a smile, but she’s saved from having to answer by Bran wheeling out of the hallway. Edmure goes to fist bump him, Bryden hangs their coats in the closet, and Catelyn moves back to the kitchen, leaving Sansa and Jon alone. Sansa clenches her teeth, braces herself for whatever he’s going to say, but it never comes. After a moment she glances at him to find his face closed and unreadable, the same face he’d wear when they were children and someone would make fun of his mother.

 _You’ve always been so good at hurting people. Is it really so surprising you could hurt him?_ For a moment Sansa is nearly reaching over, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but she swore after Joffrey she’d never be that girl again: the one that let guys make her feel weak, the one that they could walk all over. And all the girl Sansa has hollowed herself into can do is turn on her heel and follow her mother into the kitchen again.

One by one everyone finds their way to the table as Sansa and Catelyn bring out the food: Edmure and Brynden first, then Bran and Rickon, and finally Arya and Jon. A sinking fills Sansa’s stomach as she realizes that the only two open seats will be her mother’s at the head of the table and the one next to Jon. She can’t say anything though, not without causing a scene or asking someone to move. She fiddles with the last dish while her mother takes her seat and pours herself a glass of wine, but is eventually forced to set the dish on the table. She smooths her skirt under her and takes the seat next to Jon without looking at him.

The meal that follows could not be more different from the one the night before. Where then conversation had hummed back and forth now the table is largely silent but for the clink of forks and spoons on plates. At the head of the table Catelyn sips her glass silently, eyes half lidded on Jon. Edmure tries to strike up a conversation with her, but her answer are clipped and monosyllabic and he eventually gives up, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and turning back to his food. Arya glares down at her plate, stabbing her fork harder than she needs to and Rickon keeps frowning up at everyone. And Jon… Sansa doesn’t let herself look at him.

The meal drags on, Catelyn’s glass slowly draining, cold eyes never wavering from Jon. Sansa eats mechanically, all the food she spent the last hour cooking tasteless. The wine’s fuzzy warmth has long since fled and no matter how much she tries to ignore it the sense of Jon next to her won’t go away, the unavoidable prickle of another person so close, and when Sansa can’t stand it any longer she risks a glance, hides the movement under a sip of cider.

He’s hunched in his chair, eyes trained on his plate, but where Sansa expected his face to be closed and unreadable like before she’s startled to find it pale and strangely young: the same face he’d worn as they lowered Robb and her father into the ground, as Arya clung to him with his sling and he’d looked as though he were about to buckle under her mother’s cold, judging gaze, the one that asked why he’d been the one to survive the accident that claimed her son and husband.

Sansa tears her eyes from Jon, stares down at her plate, suddenly ashamed.  _How much would it really have cost you,_ a voice in her whispers, an echo from the day before, _to smile at him now and then without turning up your nose?_

Sansa swallows down the lump in her throat and, eyes still on her plate, reaches under the table. She doesn’t look at Jon as she finds his hand and slips hers into it. He goes still, a moment that seems to stretch for an eternity, the thump of Sansa’s heart against her rib cage painful, and then his fingers lace through hers and he squeezes her hand, tight as though he were drowning, and relief blooms so sharp through Sansa that she feels as though she could sob.

No one at the table notices. It’s unimaginably strange sitting with Jon’s hand in hers in the middle of her family, and Sansa’s heart leaps into her throat every time someone glances their way, but she refuses to let go, refuses to abandon Jon. Only when his phone buzzes in his pocket and he squeezes her fingers does she relinquish his hand. Immediately she misses the warmth of it, the tight clasp of his fingers between hers.

Jon slips his phone from his pocket, glances at the screen, and stands suddenly, chair squealing as he pushes it back. “Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Stark.” He says stiffly. “I should be getting back though, the highway’s open again.”

Sansa stands up next to him, nearly banging the table she rises so fast. “I’ll go with you.”

Jon glances at her sharply, but she doesn’t meet his gaze. She gives her mother a strained smile as Catelyn frowns. “We’re not done with lunch, Sansa,” she says. “And there’s still presents to do.”

“You can give me mine next time I’m down. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. It’s a tradition.”

“Mom, let her go,” Arya says, and Sansa has never been more surprised to hear her voice. “If she has to take the train it’ll be dark by the time she gets back. If she goes with Jon-”

“She isn’t going with Jon.” Catelyn swallows the rest of her glass and takes a long, steadying breath. “Sansa, honey, sit down.”

Sansa doesn’t. She can feel everyone looking at her: Bran frowning, Rickon confused, Edmure with his eyebrows raised. If she looks at them she knows she will sit, that the tangle of embarrassment in her gut will be too much: so she doesn’t look at them, just raises her chin and trains her gaze on Catelyn. She wishes she knew what to say. But the words aren’t there like they used to be, haven’t been for a long time, and she doubts her mother could hear them right now even if they were. “I’m gonna go, mom,” she says quietly. “We’ll do presents next time I’m down.”

Her mother’s mouth twists, but she nods curtly and refills her glass. “Say hello to your aunt for us.”

Together Sansa and Jon leave the table. She waits until they’re in the family room before turning to him. “I’ll be just a minute.”

He nods, and Sansa makes her way to Arya’s room. The wet clothes she’d stripped off earlier are still on the floor. She scoops them up and stuffs them into her bag, slips the strap over her shoulder, turns for the door, and nearly bumps into Arya. Of course. Sansa steps back and blows out a breath. “What is it?”

Arya opens her mouth, stops, then closes it. “Jon’s good,” she says slowly. “Like, he’s really good.”

“I know that.” Sansa's chest aches. She doesn’t need this right now, doesn’t need to hear just how little Arya has always thought of her. “I don’t need you to tell me. I know you don’t think I’m good enough for him. He’s good, I’m not, and you don’t need to worry about it, after today he knows that too.”

“No, idiot,” Arya snaps. “Just listen for once, ok? Jon was there for me after the crash, after Robb and dad died. He was _always_ there. If you need him… just talk to him. He’ll listen.”

Sansa stares at her blankly. She doesn’t know what to do with that: not here, not now, so she shoulders past Arya without saying anything and leaves down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always you can find a preview of the next chapter on [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com).


	8. Christmas 5

Jon is already outside as Sansa slips out the door, huddled in his jacket under the eave. The rain has stopped but for a light sprinkle, water dripping from the roof. He gives her a quick glance, and silently they both cross to his car and step inside.

Sansa’s heart beats strangely loud in her ears as Jon pulls out of the driveway. But Jon doesn’t say anything, and the silence only settles deeper between them as minutes tick by without either of them speaking, seeps into the ragged upholstery of the chairs and scuffed carpet. Sansa finds the silence settling into her too, dampening the beating in her ears to leave her both strangely calm and hyper aware of the car around her at once.

The sun is starting to fall by the time Jon pulls off the highway. After what feels like a very short time they’re rolling into Lysa’s neighborhood, trimmed and manicured lawns stretching out on either side of the road. The light is almost gone as Jon pulls under the broken streetlight opposite Lysa’s house and shifts into park. He switches off the lights but doesn’t pull the keys out, fingers fiddling with them. “It’s not that I didn’t want to this morning,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.”

Sansa tightens her fingers on her bag. She looks out the window. “You don’t have to say that, Jon. It’s ok.”

“No it isn’t.” Carefully, Jon reaches up and brushes back the hair from her forehead, fingertips light. “It’s not that I didn’t want to,” he says again, a low and husky note slipping into his voice. “You have no idea how much I wanted to, Sansa. But not… not like that. Not like you owed me.”

All the hurt in her has settled to a marrow-deep ache in Sansa’s chest, but a knot still lodges itself in her throat as she stares out at the street. “I don’t know how to be any other way, Jon. I like you, I can’t stop liking you, and I don’t know what else to do with it. No matter how hard I try I can’t be Margaery or Val or some girl who’s cool and sexy and strong.”

“You don’t have to be.” Something almost pleading frays the edges of Jon’s voice. “I know you think you’re broken or something, but you’re not, Sansa. You would never have left Joffrey if you were, would never have kept going after the crash and everything else you’ve been through if you were. You don’t have to try to be anyone besides Sansa Stark. I like Val, but she’s not you. She’s not who I care about, not half as strong or kind or fierce.”

She wants to believe Jon. More than anything she’s ever wanted in that moment Sansa wants to believe him, to bury her face in his chest, to believe he’s right about her, to believe that she isn’t broken, that she’s still worth something. But there are so many thing she’s wanted throughout her life, so many things that have turned out to be nothing but smoke and lies that she doesn’t know if she can stand this one too turning out untrue, that she won’t simply snap in two if she looks at Jon and sees he’s only being kind.

It would be easier to slip outside than to face him. To nod and mumble a thank you and flee to Lysa’s house, not look back, keep being the girl she’s sworn she would be after the crash, after Joffrey. But Sansa is so tired of it: hiding, fighting, running, lying, being the girl who isn’t something instead of the one that is. And so, carefully, she raises her chin and meets Jon’s eyes even though it feels like it’s going to tear away everything she is as she does. “You really think I’m strong?”

Jon’s eyes don’t waver: don’t flicker or flinch or shy away, just meet hers with a sad warmth. “I know you are, Sansa.”

“Then show me.” Sansa rests her forehead against his. “Show me you don’t think I’ll break, Jon.”

He does, mouth capturing hers in a long fierce kiss. Hesitantly, Sansa curls the fingers of her right hand in his shirt, pulls herself to him like she had that morning, opens his mouth and lets her tongue slip inside. He doesn't draw away, free hand fitting to her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of her sweater and Sansa shudders at the feeling, can't help the gasp that slips from her lips as his fingers tickle up her spine.

She deepens the kiss, lifts herself up and Jon reaches down and slides his seat back as she pulls herself astride him. She sits back on his lap, a sharp shudder shivering through her as she does, the thin material of her leggings all there is between her and his jeans and the stiff length she can feel pushing up against them.

Jon pulls back a little, forehead still touching hers, voice ragged. “Tell me if it's too much.”

Sansa shakes her head, pulls his mouth back to hers with the fingers tangled in his shirt. With her other hand she reaches back, slides his arm out from behind her back and guides it to the inside of her thigh, shivers as his fingers ghost along the curve of it. She gasps into his mouth, can’t help but rock her hips forward to try and meet them.

Jon hand slips away just far enough to make her groan with impatience, and his other hand slides from her cheek to tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck. He pulls her back to meet his eyes: half lidded and dark, as though he were drunk on her. “You’re sure?”

Sansa nods, a shaky movement. Guys have fingered her before: clumsy and awkward and she’d never enjoyed it, just closed her eyes and made the right noises so they’d hurry up. It’d never been like this, like her whole body is aflame. She needs more: needs Jon to keep looking at her like he is, needs his fingers on her, in her, opening her. “Touch me, Jon.”

And he does.

His thumb brushes her clit and suddenly there isn’t space for anything in Sansa but the whimper that spills from her lips as all her muscles spasm at once. Her hips rock forward, grind against the hard line of him pressing up against his jeans, desperate for more, but his thumb doesn’t speed up even as she pushes against it, pace slow and maddeningly unhurried. Distantly, Sansa knows she should be reaching down, pulling Jon free, doing something for him, but she can’t seem to think straight, all the world a haze around her but for the callused pad of his thumb rubbing slow circles around her clit. And God, the way he’s looking at her, hawk-sharp like she’s all the world, like he could drink her in.

His thumb leaves her clit and he slips his hand under her leggings, warm skin against warm skin as he slides his fingers down. “Jon,” she pants against his mouth, but it’s ok, ok because it’s Jon, Jon who knows, knows and still wants _her_. “God that feels good, don’t stop Jon, please don’t stop-”

Her voice gives way to a moan as Jon slips a finger in her and she shudders at how good it feels, at the way his finger curls upwards and hits a spot that makes all her muscles clench. She arches onto his finger, eyes closed, panting, barely able to keep back the tide rising in her, the heat dancing beneath her skin. His thumb settles back on her clit, this time skin on slick skin, and she’s gasping, panting, writhing in his grip, the whole world the crook of his finger and rub of his thumb. He pulls her back to him, opens her mouth with his. She moans into it, shudder after shudder arching her against him as she rides his finger and clutches his shirt, world dimming and narrowing to the glorious friction of his fingers.

Sansa doesn’t know how long she rides out her orgasm like that. A minute or an hour or a year and she’d never know. All she knows is that as fast as it came it’s gone and she’s collapsed against Jon, forehead sweaty against his shoulder, very aware of every way they’re touching: the whisper of his breath against her ear, the still slightly ragged rise and fall of his chest, the soft of his cardigan’s weave, the gentle sift of his fingers through her hair.

Though she feels as though she never wants to move again a gentle warmth hums through Sansa. Slowly, carefully, still straddling him, she sits up. He smiles at her and brushes back the strands of hair sticking to her forehead. “You ok?”

She smiles back, soft and shy, and gives a small nod. “Very.”

“Good.” Jon fits his palm to her cheek and Sansa turns into it, nuzzles his palm. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, Sansa,” he says, voice hoarse.

Sansa smiles against his palm. “You could always tell me.”

Jon gives an exhausted laugh. “Stop wearing that red push up bra and I’ll actually be able to focus long enough to think of something to say.”

Sansa hums a pleased note deep in her throat and lets her eyes dip closed. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to.” His voice is sheepish. He strokes her cheek with his thumb. “I couldn’t stop looking that night at the party. It was embarrassing.”

Sansa shakes her head. “It wasn’t. Not with you. And there’s nothing wrong with being a boob guy.”

Jon laughs again, low and husky, and Sansa realizes she wants nothing more than to feel the sound against her lips. So she kisses him, slow and languid, less urgent than before, and when she’s done rests her forehead against his. “I don’t want to go.”

“Me either.” Forehead still pressed against hers he takes both her hands in his, runs his thumbs along her knuckles. “But we don’t have to wait for another holiday to see each other again, you know. I do have an apartment that’s empty like half the time.”

“I remember.” Sansa hides her smile by glancing out the window, at the dark street and Lysa’s house just up the road. It’s not just the possibility of repeating what they’ve done that sparks a warmth in Sansa’s stomach: it’s the future it hints at, the promise that this isn’t just a fluke, a mistake Jon will regret come morning. And as much as she wants that future to hurry up and arrive now, Sansa knows it won’t, that she can’t put off going back to Lysa’s forever. She forces herself to lift herself off Jon and fall back into her seat. She rearranges her skirt, grabs her bag, and curls her fingers around the door handle before turning back to Jon. “I should go.”

Jon nods, eyes half lidded and dark, but just as she’s opening the door and turning to leave he catches her face between his hands and pulls her to him again, presses her mouth to his, fierce and urgent in a way that makes Sansa tingle all over, that makes her realize just how much he must’ve been holding back for her, makes her ache to find out just how how badly he needs her and how rough his fingers can be. And she wonders if she’ll ever get tired of it: of the taste of his lips and feel of his tongue, of the way he catches her bottom lip between his teeth and pulls a groan from her.

They do eventually part again though, Jon slowly drawing back. He smiles at her. “You _should_ go.”

A smile teases Sansa’s lips, and she sticks out her tongue. “I am.”

This time she does, cracks open the door and slips out. She hurries through the cold to the door of Lysa’s house and glances back to find Jon watching her from inside his car. Something tugs at her chest as he pulls out from under the broken streetlight, as she watches his Chevy drive down the street; and though she’s not sure what it is, it isn’t hurt, and so she opens Lysa’s door and steps inside. And later, when she’s up in her room and warm again, she pulls out her phone and texts Arya with a wisp of a smile on her face. _When did you get so wise?_

And when her phone chirps a minute later she can almost hear Arya’s snort in her answer. _I’ve always been wise, idiot_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was (again) supposed to be the end of this fic but I’m somehow in the process of writing an epilogue. Hopefully it won’t turn into another five chapter arc (again). I’ll post a preview over on [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com) when it’s closer to being done, so follow me on there.
> 
> For now though what did everybody think? Did this make all the angst worth it? Let me know in the comments.


	9. Graduation 1

“Is that him?” Margaery cranes her neck, nearly rising out of her seat to try and peer over the field of other seated graduates. “Over by professor Tarth?”

Sansa rolls her eyes and drags Margaery back down by her sleeve. “I told you, you can meet him after.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t even shown me a picture of your _college_ man.” Margaery pouts as she plops back down in her seat, red lips pursing plaintively. Somehow even in her black graduation robe she’s vivacious and beautiful, red pumps peeking out under the hem, gold tasseled hat set at a jaunty angle. “It’s been five months, Sansa. I thought we were friends. You know how thirsty I’ve been lately.”

Mya Stone leans across from the other side of Margaery and grins at Sansa. “We’re all excited to meet him, Sans, though for rather less transparent reasons.”

Margaery makes an indignant face, but Sansa grins back at Mya, something giddy thumping in her chest. Mya is a new friend: they have English together, and Sansa had been surprised when the dark haired girl had asked her for help studying after school, and even more surprised when she agreed. They aren’t close, but Mya is blunt and honest and fun to be around. And it’s nice to have someone else to hang out with besides Margaery, though Sansa finds herself spending less time with Margaery than she used to since Christmas.

It’s been five months since Christmas **,** five months of seeing Jon, of exploring each other in his apartment when Theon isn’t around. Though Jon always offers Sansa never has him pick her up, just grabs the bus from school to his apartment. The first couple times he hadn’t been home and she’d waited on the stoop with a textbook propped open on her knees until he showed up. When he asked with a frown why she hadn’t texted she just hopped to her feet and flashed him an innocent smile and said she didn’t mind waiting. After the third time Jon found her there he’d sighed and scrounged a spare key from a drawer. She knows his class and work schedule now, but still gets there before him when she can’t face Lysa and her son: lets herself in and makes the apartment neat or cooks something or just sets up her homework on the kitchenette bar.

Sansa bites her lip and glances up at the theater stands. Her mother and Arya have come down for the day, and she’s nervous to leave Jon alone with her mother for so long. _Arya will be with him at least._ “Have you heard from Hightower yet?” She asks Mya.

“Not yet.” Mya makes a face. “I’ve still got my fingers crossed though. You?”

Sansa shakes her head. She’s applied to a few schools already: Berkeley, Dartmouth, but Hightower is the one she’s hoping for despite the pit of dread in her stomach when she thinks about it. It’s a good school, but on the other side of the country and she’s not an idiot: she knows what it’ll mean for her and Jon. Long distance never works. Every teen drama and sitcom she’s ever watched has taught Sansa that.

She’s broken out of her thoughts by Willas starting his speech. Despite being her brother Margaery barely seems to notice as she keeps craning her neck to see if she can spy Jon in the audience. Sansa’s told her a little about Jon, but otherwise been careful to keep the two of them seperate. It’s not that she thinks Margaery would try to steal him away, but Margaery and school are one world and Jon and his apartment another and maybe it’s selfish, but for as long as she could she wanted to keep Jon all her own.

 _Until today_. The thought is a giddy thump in her chest, and Sansa tugs again at Margaery’s sleeve to keep her from rising in her seat to try and spy him. Margaery pouts yet again and crosses her arms, but seems to be mollified for the moment and settles back in her seat to listen to her brother.

Willas’ speech goes quickly. Principle Stannis says a few short, curt words, and then the first row of graduates is rising. One by one they walk on stage to a wave of applause as they’re handed their diplomas. Before long it’s Sansa’s row standing and beginning to shuffle towards the aisle. Mya goes first, her brothers cheering from the audience. Margaery follows her up, striding confidently across the stage. She smiles at the crowd and giving an easy wave for all the world like she’s a beauty queen before her adoring fans.

Then it’s Sansa’s turn.

Her heart thumps painfully against her breastbone as Sansa climbs the steps, giddy energy flushing through her. She manages to not look at the crowd as she crosses the stage, and only once her diploma is in hand does she turn to face them. It takes her a second to pick out Jon and Arya and her mother from the crowd. Jon is grinning and even Arya smiling, fingertips in her mouth as she whistles loudly. Sansa grins and waves, and then quickly strides across the stage and down the opposite side before she loses her nerve.

It’s a blur after that, and before Sansa realizes it the last of her classmates has left the stage and everyone’s rising from their seats and mingling with the crowd. Mya breaks away to go find her brother and Margaery gives Sansa’s arm a quick squeeze before doing the same. It takes a minute of swimming through the swirl of the crowd, and Sansa nearly loses her hat when she bumps into one of Myranda’s aunts, but she makes it to the edge of the auditorium where her mother and Jon and Arya stand smiling.

“I’m so proud of you, honey.” Her mother wraps her in a hug. She squeezes her and pulls away, blinking back tears as she smoothes back a fringe of Sansa’s hair. “You look beautiful.”

“Here.” Arya thrusts out a bouquet of flowers. “Mom made me hold these the whole time.”

Any other day the comment would raise Sansa’s hackles, but today she just laughs and swoops down to hug her. Arya makes a retching sound but doesn’t resist. Sansa straightens, and finally turns to Jon, who stands with his hands in his pockets, an almost sheepish grin on his face. “Congratulations, Sansa.”

For a moment the excitement blooming in Sansa’s stomach is almost too much and she’s nearly throwing herself at Jon, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a long, deep kiss, not caring that they’re surrounded by her classmates and her family, not caring if they get wolf whistles or laughs. But her mother isn’t more than a few steps away so Sansa swallows down the giddy ball in her throat and just grins at Jon, a wide, goofy expression she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed about. “Thanks.”

“We made it, Sansypants!” Margaery reappears from the crowd to give give her a one armed hug. She beams at Arya and Catelyn. “You must be Sansa’s family. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Margaery, though I’m sure Sansa’s told you about all the trouble I get her into.”

Catelyn raises an amused eyebrow. “She definitely hasn’t, but it’s good to meet you anyway, Margaery.”

Margaery laughs. She turns from Catelyn to Jon, and something suspiciously like a purr hums from her throat as her eyes look him up and down. She extends a slim hand. “You must be Jon.”

Jon’s eyebrows twitch, but he reaches out and shakes Margaery’s hand. “Yeah. It’s nice to meet you.”

Margaery tilts her head to the side, gives Jon the coy, curving expressions she uses on guys Sansa recognizes from a hundred parties. “Has Sansa invited you to the party at my house tonight? You should come, we’re going to-”

“That guy in the wheelchair is calling for you,” Arya breaks in. She points at the far end of the crowd. “I think he needs you.”

Margaery pouts but turns and squeezes Sansa’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. You need to tell me _everything,_ you little slut,” she whispers with a grin before disappearing into the crowd.

Sansa gives Arya a curious look as her mother and Jon say something to each other. “How did you see Willas over the crowd?”

“I didn’t.” Arya scowls. “I just don’t like her.”

Sansa laughs and resists the urge to hug Arya again. Two gestures of affection in one day is more than her sister can bear she knows.

“We should get going if we don’t want to miss the reservation.” Catelyn glances at her watch. She gives Jon a neutral look. “You said it’s fifteen minutes away?”

Jon nods. “It’s just around the corner.”

Sansa tucks the flowers Arya gave her under her arm as they start to make their way to the edge of the auditorium. Her mother and Arya lead, and Jon falls back to walk beside Sansa, hands stuck in his pockets. Her gives her an amused look. “So that’s Margaery?”

“She can be a lot.” So close Sansa catches a whiff of Jon’s aftershave, the smell she’s gotten so used to in the last five months that she finds herself missing it when she’s home at Lysa’s or at school. And then because her mother is talking to Arya and Sansa can’t hold herself back any longer, she darts up and kisses Jon on the cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

Jon smiles at her, cheeks flushing. “I wouldn’t miss it, Sansa.”

\---

“You really work here?” Arya says to Jon with a frown as they enter The Wall. “I didn’t know it was so fancy. You really have to wait on all these snobby rich people?”

“Arya,” Catelyn admonishes, but she isn’t wrong. The Wall is unquestionably head and shoulders over any normal restaurant: white marble floors, intricately carved ice sculptures behind glass panels along the walls, tasteful blue lamps flickering in deep sconces. It’s the kind of restaurant their family had gone to a hundred times in their old life, the kind of restaurant Sansa wouldn’t have blinked twice at before she learned just how scarce money could be. She shivers and draws her cardigan tighter around her, grateful Jon had warned her how chilly it would be.

“It isn’t so bad.” Jon musses Arya’s hair and crosses to a dour faced man behind a dark paneled desk. “Hey Edd. I made a reservation for four.”

“I didn’t think you’d make it.” Edd says mildly. “You’re at table six.”

“You know you’re supposed to lead us back there, right Edd?”

Edd shrugs. “You know the way.”

Jon snorts and waves them over. Table six is a booth table against the wall, and Sansa is careful to let her mother slide in before her so she can buffer between her and Jon.

“Can I get you started on something to drink?” A blonde server draws a notepad from her black half apron as she moves to their table. She arches an eyebrow as she catches sight of Jon. “I didn’t know it’d be you. Thank God, these heels are killing me.”

“Hey, Val. These are the Starks. Most of them, anyway.”

“Oh? The much talked about Starks?” Val taps her pen towards Arya. “Arya, right?” Without waiting for an answer she swivels to Sansa. Her eyebrow arches faintly as her eyes move up Sansa in a slow sweep. “And you must be Sansa.”

 _And you’re Val._ Out of the corner of her eye Sansa sees Jon redden. Standing in front of their booth it’s impossible not to take in just how tall and effortlessly statuesque Val is even in just black slacks and crisp white shirt, cheekbones high and haughty like some kind of norse frost maiden. _Jon’s an adult. You’re still in highschool,_ a familiar voice whispers in the back of Sansa’s head, but it’s harder to hear than it once was, faint and faraway, and she smiles at Val. “I am.”

A smile plays along Val’s lips, and she throws Jon a knowing look, something teasing in it, before turning back to the table as a whole. “What do you want to drink?”

Catelyn orders wine, the rest of them water (though not before Arya asks if she can have beer). Their drinks have only just barely arrived when another server comes by to say hello to Jon: a broad shouldered guy about his age called Grenn, quickly followed by the shorter Pyp, who himself in turn is followed by the dark haired Alys. With each new arrival Jon looks more and more self conscious and sinks further into his seat. Alys moves to another table and Sansa reaches under the table where her mother can’t see and squeezes Jon’s hand, quirks her lips when he glance at her. “Someone’s popular.”

“The crew here is like that,” Jon mutters sheepishly. “I’m just glad Tormund’s not on shift. He’s… loud.”

“I still want to meet him.” Arya announces from the other side of Sansa. “He’s the one with the beard, right?”

Sansa looks out the rest of the restaurant as Jon confirms that he is. It’s strange to think of Jon here waiting on tables or carrying out plates of food, even after all the times she’s seen him return to his apartment in black slacks and white shirt. It’s easier to picture him there: on the couch with an arm around her as she curls next to him when they watch a movie, or frowning down at a book for class as she sits at a right angle to him with a textbook of her own and the tips of her feet tucked warm under his leg, or mouth quirking in a smile as he cups her face in his hands and kisses her and she fists her fingers in his shirt and pulls him down.

Sansa looks down, a sudden ache lodged in her throat. It’s easier to picture Jon that way, but in just a month or two picturing him is all she’ll be able to do. _You’ll be across the country and he’ll still be here serving tables and taking lunch breaks with girls called Val._ After Joffrey she’d sworn she would never again let herself be that silly girl that fantasized about life and marriage and kids, but she can’t help it sometimes when she’s curled into Jon’s side in his bed or on the couch, his hand stroking her hair, can’t help but wonder what it would be like if it could always be like this.

Val brings the food and Sansa forces herself to smile. _Today is a good day. Don’t ruin it._ She cuts her food as Arya begins stuffing into her mouth the french fries she insisted on ordering despite their mother’s protestations that she needed to eat something real. On her part her Catelyn sips from her wine glass between every few bites, a slower pace than she had at Christmas. Sansa eyes her glass. She still feels it, the scratch at the back of her throat that only wine or schnapps can ease, but it’s easier to resist now, easier to ignore after months of afternoons spent at Jon’s apartment. Theon’s in AA and Jon doesn’t drink and without anything in easy reach she’s had to learn how to swallow back the scratch in her throat when it comes at the end of a long day.

They’re mostly done with their food when Sansa excuses herself to go the bathroom, Arya predictably huffing that she has to get out of the booth first. It’s in the back of the restaurant down a long hall by the kitchen. She washes her hands and comes back out into the hallway to find Arya standing outside. “You shouldn’t leave him alone with mom,” Sansa admonishes as she closes the door behind him. “You know how much they don’t get along.”

Arya gives her a look. “You two are embarrassing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The two of you. The way you keep mooning over each other.” Arya sniffs. “I’m ok with it though. Mostly.”

Sansa purses her lips. “Well thank God we have your blessing.”

Arya gives her a long, dark eyed look. “Have you told him you’re going out of state for your degree?”

Sansa sighs and leans back against the wall. “Yes, Arya, he knows.”

“And? Are you two staying together?”

Sansa resist the urge to snap out that it’s none of her business and instead blows out a sigh and looks down. She fiddles with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Long distance never works.”

Arya arches an eyebrow. “Are you planning on cheating on him?”

“What? No!” Sansa jerks her head up. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, Jon’s not going to cheat on you. He doesn’t have it in him.”

“It’s not that, Arya. He’s going to have his life and I’m going to have mine.” Still fiddling with her sleeve, Sansa looks down the hall, forces her voice light and airy. “It’s ok. It happens. We’re both adults.”

Arya gives her a flat eyed look. “I know what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?” Sansa snaps sharper than she meant to. She forces herself to stop fiddling with her sleeve and straighten. “Tell me, Arya. Tell me what I’m doing.”

“What you always do. Just talk to him, Sansa. How many times do I have to tell you? Jon’s good. He’ll listen.”

“I know he will.” The words catch in Sansa’s throat. She swallows down the lump that’s risen in it. “I know he will,” she starts again, voice smaller. “And I know he is. But that doesn’t mean he’ll want to try and make it work. I just- I don’t want him to-” _To regret me. To resent me. To hate me._ But even saying the words are too much and so Sansa just looks down and shakes her head. “I don’t want him to say no.”

Arya doesn’t answer. After a second, she crosses the hall and leans against the wall beside Sansa. And though she knows Arya’s already used up her physical contact quota for the day, Sansa lays her head on top of Arya’s. Arya doesn’t pull away and they stand like that for a long minute, silent and side by side, the faint chatter and clang of the kitchen filling the hall. “We should talk more.” Sansa says quietly.

“Yeah.” Arya shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “Does it have to be with each other?”

“Yes with each other, dummy.” Sansa bumps her shoulder. “Would that be so bad?”

Arya makes a noncommittal noise, and Sansa smiles, a warmth in her chest, and pushes off the wall. “Come on. I don’t know what you were thinking leaving Jon alone with mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, it grew again. There’s going to be another chapter or two after this that’ll form a mini epilogue arc. As always you can follow me at [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com) where I'll post a preview of the next chapter when I get closer to posting it.
> 
> What'd everybody think of this first part?
> 
> (also please excuse the typos, I didn't proofread as much as normal)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic - Tipsy in a Red Push Up Bra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156581) by [ClovesAndSundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClovesAndSundry/pseuds/ClovesAndSundry)




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